


Taste Test

by lamardeuse



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-22
Updated: 2010-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, I'd never have considered my son particularly interesting either," Bob huffed, "until I saw - Lord."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste Test

**Author's Note:**

> Written for due South Flashfiction on Livejournal (dead Bob challenge).
> 
> Inspired by Kass and co-authored by my partner for life, luvhandlz.

“Don’t take it personally, Bob.  You know the way young folks are nowadays.”  Maurice shrugged as he turned back to his contemplation of the sunset.  The Group of Six had picked a perfect spot for their latest project, the dying rays of the sun caressing the Bering Strait’s choppy waters.  Lucky none of them had to fret about retinal burn any longer.

“Yes, my daughter never listens to me either,” George chimed in.  “I told her that real estate agent looked shifty to me, but did she take my advice?”  He applied crimson daubs of oil paint to his canvas with vicious strokes. 

“I don’t think real estate agents can be blamed for freak tornadoes,” Maurice offered.

George sniffed.  “Well, he could have warned her about the pig farm down the road.  When they started hitting the roof…” He shuddered expressively.

Maurice brushed a wispy line of cloud onto his own canvas, then turned to Bob.  “I think you’ll just have to be more careful about when you drop in, now that Benton is…” He trailed off with a wave of his paintbrush.

Bob cleared his throat.  “Perhaps you’re right,” he allowed, “but I was only trying to be helpful.”

“I know,” Maurice said.  “But even you have to admit, a discussion of the relative merits of various kinds of maple syrup, when they were—”

“It was relevant to the situation,” Bob protested.  “And all I said was that a Québec syrup might have been a better choice for that particular—ah, activity.”

George’s face acquired a dreamy expression.  “Yes, the maples of the Beauce produce an exquisite _clair._  Nectar of the gods.”

Maurice and Bob stared at him.  George blinked, then flushed.  “On pancakes.  And waffles.  I’ve never—that is—”

“Calm down, calm down,” Maurice sighed.  “No one’s accusing you of being interesting.”

“Well, I’d never have considered my son particularly _interesting _either,” Bob huffed, “until I saw—Lord.”  He squinted at the ocean, then picked up a mixture of olive and phthalo blue on his brush.  “But I’ve always prided myself on my tolerance, and so I thought, well, what better way to show him my support than to offer a little advice?  I didn’t expect it to devolve so quickly into a shouting match.”

“Bob, you interrupted your son _in flagrante delicto_,” Maurice explained calmly, “and you insulted his partner.”

“I did not!” Bob exploded.  “I merely suggested that the Yank’s scrotum wouldn’t stick to the sheets like that if they used a lighter grade of syrup!”

Several gulls launched themselves into noisy, squawking flight at the outburst, and when their cries died away, silence reigned.

“Beautiful sunset,” Maurice observed, some minutes later.

Bob grunted and dabbed another wave onto his canvas.


End file.
